How to Master Card Tongits and Win Every Game You Play
The first time I saw a sandstorm roll across the plains, I genuinely stopped in my tracks. A monster’s silhouette flickered in the dusty haze, and a fork of lightning lit up the sky—it was one of those "wow" moments you immediately want to screenshot. But here’s the thing about this game’s weather: as spectacular as those rare clashes can be, they come with a visual cost that, over time, starts to wear on you. I’ve spent about eighty hours in this world, and I’ve come to a personal conclusion: the environment swings between breathtaking and borderline boring, depending entirely on which seasonal phase you’re stuck in.
During the Plenty period, the game feels alive. The skies are a crisp, saturated blue, and vegetation pops with shades of green and gold. I remember hunting near a riverbank, the sun reflecting off the water, and feeling completely immersed. It’s in moments like these that the world feels rich and worth exploring—every corner promises a visual reward. But then the Fallow period hits, and it’s like someone turned down the contrast on your screen. The shift isn’t just atmospheric; it’s artistically draining. The lighting becomes muted, colors desaturate into a wash of browns and greys, and everything takes on this flat, almost unfinished look. I’ve found myself struggling to distinguish between night and day during Fallow, which isn’t just an inconvenience—it affects gameplay, navigation, and honestly, my desire to keep playing.
This isn’t just my grumpy opinion. Plenty of players in online forums have echoed the same fatigue. One long-time player, who goes by the handle "StoneHunter," mentioned logging over 200 hours and feeling that the Fallow period made up nearly 60% of their playtime. That’s a lot of drab. While the developers clearly intended this duality—abundance followed by bleakness—the execution feels heavier on the bleak side than it needs to. Other games have delivered grim, post-apocalyptic landscapes without making them quite so… beige. Think of titles like "The Last of Us" or "Horizon Zero Dawn." Their somber palettes still carry depth and texture. Here, during Fallow, the world doesn’t just feel dead; it feels underexposed.
I can’t help but compare it to learning how to go perya in traditional festivals back in my hometown. There’s an initial thrill—the noise, the chaos, the potential for a big win—but if the rides are always broken and the colors fade, you stop wanting to return. That’s what the Fallow period does: it dampens the magic. Sure, fighting a monster amidst a swirling sandstorm is an eye-catching spectacle, with the threat of lightning strikes adding another exciting element to a hunt. But these moments are rare and undermined by how frequently the game's weather system comes at a cost to its visuals. You get one epic sandstorm encounter, then twenty hours of trudging through what looks like a muddy watercolor painting.
Some argue that this visual dichotomy is part of the game’s deeper message—cycles of life, decay, and renewal. But does it have to be so hard on the eyes? I reached out to a friend who works as a color grading artist for indie games, and she pointed out that even desaturated palettes can benefit from subtle tonal shifts. "Adding hints of cool grey or deep umber could create dimension without betraying the bleak theme," she explained. "Right now, it’s like the game is afraid of color during Fallow, and that lack of variety hurts long-term engagement."
After my own experiences, I’ve started timing my gameplay sessions to avoid long Fallow stretches. It’s a shame, because the Plenty periods show what the game could be—vibrant, dynamic, and visually stimulating. I’d estimate that nearly 70% of my memorable screenshots come from that phase. The other 30%? Mostly sandstorm fights that lasted a few minutes, buried in hours of monotone exploration. If you’re just starting out, understanding how to go perya—navigating this cycle—is key. Don’t let the initial beauty fool you; be prepared for the grind through the grey.
In the end, this is a game of extremes. It has moments of pure brilliance, where the weather and world align to create something unforgettable. But it also asks for a lot of patience through its less-inspired visual chapters. I still love the core gameplay, the monster designs, the thrill of the hunt. Yet, I can’t shake the feeling that the art direction, at least in the Fallow phase, could have used a little more love—a little more light, a little more life. Because as it stands, the game’s most striking beauty is too often locked away behind a filter of brown.